The Little Brother Of Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers Is All Grown Up…
It was decided that the award winning Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers had run its course. Other projects/deadlines/real life were getting in the way of being able to run the mag as it was so… as I’m like a dog with a bone, I decided to give it a re-vamp. Hence, Thrills, Kills ‘n’ Chaos.
I thought it only right that the legacy that best selling author Matt Hilton originally started back in 2008 should carry on – so TKnC is still here.
As with the old place, all genres will be published BUT with a max word count of 1000.
Please read the Submission Guidelines page for more info.
I really hope that you will support the new webzine and enjoy the adventure.
Bio: Chris Benton was born and raised in Wilmington, North Carolina where he still resides (though not for long, thank Christ). His stories have appeared in A TWIST OF NOIR, PLOTS WITH GUNS, THRILLER’S KILLER’S ‘N’ CHILLERS, BLACK HEART, CRIME FACTORY, and SHOTGUN HONEY. He can be found on FACEBOOK…
Our heavenly father was horny last night and decided to fuck our trailer park into countless pieces. I was fine with such destruction; I despised most of my neighbors, especially the younger ones, whose faces were already bloated by endless streams of beer and screams. What I wasn’t fine with was that my son, David, was missing after the storm. David was about to turn ten this Good Friday and both of us were looking forward to eating shitty pizza and watching fuzzy robots singing for us inside a safe, dark space.
I woke up in a bed of cattails nodding proudly at me. The sun was smiling like a maniac through a true Carolina Blue and I was strangely content within these kind reeds. I wanted to linger there for another hour or two, but unfortunately, my son was waiting for me.
The only thing I was wearing was a Slayer T-shirt. My legs and bush were bright with blood. When I found a handful of balance, my body began screaming, so I screamed with it. My legs were already beginning to go bye-bye when I stepped on Kelly Paulson. She was beneath a mattress and moaning like she was freshly grudge fucked by her crack head husband who was executed last year. I didn’t feel bad stepping on her; she was beyond insult and injury. Something had taken the top of her head off, showing the world just how bad her memories were. I knelt beside her and told her, “It’s alright honey, just stay calm, help is on the way.” It was the greatest lie of our age, and I was amazed how hot my tongue was when I told it. I felt like telling it to the world, right then and there, felt like becoming a prophet of its absurdity, traveling through ravaged land after ravaged land, preaching the futile infinity of its gospel.
Bio: Scott Dingley has worked as a London-based copywriter, publicist and film reviewer for Channel 4, Film4 and various film websites. He is the author of novellas The Renegade Hunters and The Tied-Down Man, and his short stories published on the web include The Devil’s Elbow and A Hard-To-Shake Melody.
I think chicken or egg as I turn the TV dial through the airwaves and get, wall-to-wall, the disaster emergency message they keep looping.
Focusing, I fix the lens to the camera body and admire its sparkling glass contours. Focus (that’s cute), that’s what I need.
I assemble the rest of the camera pieces just as lovingly. I sold most of my stuff and worked a lot of lonely overtime to buy this camera. All worthless, materialistic junk at the end of the day…
(Did I mention I take photographs?)
I take them because, well, they capture time, that’s it in a nutshell I guess. They say you can’t, that it waits for no man, but you can steal a tiny fraction of time out of the universe and you can keep it. There it is, forever; slip it in your wallet, frame it on your wall. No one will miss it. I like to steal those little moments and relive them at my speed. Take them out of circulation like a thousand dollar bill.
Heck, all that’s living in the past, that’s what you figure. Some people say I live in the future too, so someone’s wrong.
There have been a lot of them recorded since these things—these time machines—were invented. Everyone’s got their favourites, you name it: the Hindenburg fireball, Man on the Moon, Oswald getting shot, the tennis girl scratching her butt. For me, it’s all about the decisive moment.
Bio: Paul D. Brazill was born in England and lives in Poland. He is an International Thriller Writers Inc. member whose writing has been translated into Italian, Polish and Slovene. He has had bits and bobs of short fiction published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Books Of Best British Crime 8 and 10, alongside the likes of Ian Rankin, Neil Gaiman and Lee Child. He has edited a few anthologies, True Brit Grit– with Luca Veste – and is the author of Guns Of Brixton,The Kelly Affair, Gumshoe and 13 Shots Of Noir. His blog is here.
‘Let’s get ready to rumble,’ says Scopey, in an annoying Donald Duck voice.
Scopey is one of those people that you just want to twat and twat and twat. He’s a twitchy smack-head who peppers his conversations with impersonations of cartoon characters.
‘Awld on,’ says Binky, looking suitably pissed off.
He moves the pub’s tables into a semi-circle. Patsy, the pasty faced landlady, glances up from her Sudoku when one of the legs squeaks on the floorboards. Glares. Binky forces a smile and looks like he’s having a stroke.
‘Ta for your help, BeBop,’ he says to me. ‘Appreciate it.’
‘Nowt I can do,’ I say. ‘Gotta keep hold of this.’
I tap the camcorder. ‘Don’t want anyone TWOCing it, do I?’
Binky looks around at The Fisherman’s Arms’ geriatric customers.
‘Yeah, that’ll be right,’ he says.
‘You’re a big lad, Binky,’ I say. ‘You can manage.’
And he is big. Massive. A behemoth with a shaved head and a face latticed with scars.
‘Ready when you are,’ says Scopey. He wipes his snotty nose with his shirt sleeve and does a more than passable Woody Woodpecker laugh.
I switch on the camcorder.
‘Ladies first,’ says Binky, amping up his Glasgow accent for the camera.
‘Yabba dabba do,’ says Scopey.
He grunts as he slams a fist into Binky’s guts.
Binky grasps Scopey’s fist in his catcher’s mitt sized paws, turns to the camera and winks. He chuckles as he crushes the hand, the cracking of bone quickly drowned out by Scopey’s screams.
Scopey crumbles onto the sticky pub floor. Binky stands on Scopey’s knee until it pops and Scopey passes out.
A couple of boozehounds sat at a table by the fruit machine furtively look over disapprovingly. Binky turns to me with a shit eating grin, gives the double thumbs up and takes a bow.
‘How was that, chief?
‘Good one,’ I say.
I switch off the camcorder.
‘Piece of piss,’ says Binky.
I lean over and stuff a handful of notes into Scopey’s shirt pocket.
‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ I say, my back creaking as I straighten up.